


You Do Something to Me

by tjs_whatnot



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Fantasy Sex, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/pseuds/tjs_whatnot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan has a thing for intelligence. It hadn't been a problem before... then she found the letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Do Something to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Come at Once from the prompt "Let me live 'neath your spell."
> 
> Lyrics and title come from Cole Porter's "You do Something to Me."
> 
> Italics taken from "The Diabolical Kind" S2E12 of Elementary.

Joan has relied on deception before and felt no qualms. It had been a job requirement as a sober companion. She had cracked email passwords, had rifled through personal data and had even confiscated correspondence between lovers before. She had never felt she had crossed a line. Sure, she was no longer Sherlock’s sober companion, and her role has shifted and therefore so has what is acceptable.

Or it should be. But it’s Sherlock. Lines are blurred and are constantly shifting. She tries to hang on to her own morality, but she feels the yaw of her own sense of right and wrong waver. 

She tells herself that he is partially responsible. He had taught her to see _and_ observe, he had told her that it would change her life. He should have realized that it might change his as well. 

So she says to herself, that if he didn’t want her to find the letters, if he didn’t want her to read them, he would have hid them better. He would have, for the love of god, gotten rid of them. 

But he didn’t, and she did.

She had forgotten what intelligence did to her, instilled in her. She hadn’t worried about it as a sober companion until she had met Sherlock. There was a difference between being clever and being intelligent. Clever could manipulate and conjure; intelligence could send hot pokers to all her synapsis and leave her weak in the knees. 

She had been lucky that he had so many things going against him to counteract the incredible turn-on of his brain. He was hygienically challenged, tattoo’d and smug. None of these things did anything for her.

But in the letters it was just his mind, his articulation and something she hadn’t expected and wasn’t prepared for, his vulnerability. 

_We have spilled much ink, you and I…_

She has locked herself in her room. Sherlock has one of his “Experiments” or whatever he calls his cheap, meaningless one night stands to occupy him. It’s hard for her there in her room to separate the Sherlock whose behavior repels her in the room below from the man on the page in her hand. 

She ignores the shrieks and giggles from under her floorboards, like she’s done every night that week. She wonders if Sherlock has observed that his increased need for “Data Collection” has a correlation with this letter in her hand? Probably not. On a lot of things, Sherlock is eerily astute, emotional matters were not one of those things.

_I often feel as if I am standing on one side of a wide chasm - shouting across - and wondering if the response I hear, comes from you, - or if it is my own voice, echoing back to me…_

Once, when she had first moved in and tried to imagine him sexually, she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t put herself in that room where he lay with a woman, doing whatever it was that was on the agenda that day.

But here, in her room, with these letters in her hand, both the one Sherlock had yet to send to Moriarty and the ones she had sent to him that Joan had found in the beehives all those weeks ago, she was bombarded with images.

She sees Sherlock, his shirt off, his arms reaching and he calls for her, “Irene...Irene…”

Irene stands in one of Sherlock’s dress shirts, buttons almost completely undone and revealing her skin from her throat to her sternum. Her hair is up, but with one hand, she loosens the band and it swirls down and around her shoulders. Then she is in his arms and they fall back onto the bed, limbs entangled. Sherlock’s fingers running through her tangles, pulling her to him, kissing her hard and deep.

Joan is flushed with heat and she plays with the buttons of her blouse as she reads on.

_I watch as Watson - eager as ever to extract some meaning from the prevailing social conventions - endures a series of curated mating rituals. It seems to me that she's incrementally - LESS content - each time she returns from one._

The mention of her name and she no longer feels even the slightest tug of guilt about what she has done and what she is doing now. In fact, she feels as if she has every right to be there, to be creating this scene, living it along side them. 

Irene sits up and straddles Sherlock, working the buttons of his jeans which he shimmies out of while she fingers the last of the buttons of the shirt she’s wearing, pulling it slowly off her shoulders. Instead of looking at Sherlock, she is looking at the mirror hanging on the wall in front of her. Not at herself though; slightly to the right where Joan’s painting sits on the ground, never taking its eyes off of Irene. She smiles wickedly and Irene is gone and it’s all Moriarty now.

Joan catches her breath and her lips between her teeth as she reads on, _I find you a challenge; one that in spite of all that you've done, continues to stimulate._

Sherlock sits up and wraps his arms around her, but he doesn’t notice the change in her, or how she’s still staring at Joan’s image. But Joan notices and she also notices as she snakes her hands in between the fabric of her panties that she is wet.

Joan falls back onto the bed, the letter flutters out of her fingers, forgotten. She closes her eyes and tries to get the image of Sherlock and Irene, or even Sherlock and Moriarty. But, that fantasy is gone and now there is just _her_. Joan and her.

She hovers over Joan, licking her lips. Not to kiss her, but to taste her. She tastes her lips, her throat, shoulder and breasts. All the while whispering into Joan’s skin things that Joan wishes she couldn’t recognize.

“You have the power to hypnotize me,” she murmurs as she takes Joan’s nipple into her mouth and swirls her tongue around the areola. “Let me live 'neath your spell,” she breaths into Joan’s pelvis as she maneuvers between Joan’s legs. “You do something to me,” she whispers before she licks along Joan’s labia. 

Joan’s fingers are still there, spreading the lips of her cunt, her other hand balled in a fist and she bites down on it, fighting against panting out the last line of the song, “You do something to me that nobody else could do.” as Moriarty sucks on her clit, taking it between her teeth. Joan bites down hard on her fisted hand, pinches her clit hard and comes harder; her breath held on that last line.

_...that nobody else could do…_


End file.
